


The Cold and Silent Reaches

by akamine_chan



Category: due South
Genre: Haunting, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every house plant that Fraser brings home dies.  It doesn't matter how hardy the plant is, or how much effort Fraser puts into its care.  He buys a moisture tester, a light sensor, a pH meter.  He monitors the temperature, feeds the plants a proprietary blend of plant food that he develops himself and still they die, shriveled and brown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold and Silent Reaches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts).



> Fic #4 written for Ride4_ever in return for her donation in my fanworks fundraiser. Sorry these are taking so long to get finished. Thanks for your patience.
> 
> If you're looking for a fluffy, happy-ending story, this is not the story you're looking for. Move along. 
> 
> Much thanks to Ande for beta.

Their new home has a few quirks.

* * *

Every house plant that Fraser brings home dies. It doesn't matter how hardy the plant is, or how much effort Fraser puts into its care. He buys a moisture tester, a light sensor, a pH meter. He monitors the temperature, feeds the plants a proprietary blend of plant food that he develops himself and still they die, shriveled and brown.

He constructs an array of grow lights, tries out different growth mediums, switches to hydroponics, which fills the apartment with the steady hum of nutrient fluids pumped over the roots. He tries growing plants from seed, from cuttings, and grafts.

Cacti and succulents, jungle plants, temperate plants and everything in between die a slow, sad death. Fraser tries talking to the plants, and sings cheerful folk songs for them, but nothing keeps them alive. He doesn't understand; he's always had a green thumb.

* * *

The house is well-lit and bright, windows that open out onto the small backyard and their smart suburban street. On nice days, they open the windows and let the breeze in. It usually carries the scent of wisteria and the sound of children laughing from the playground down the road.

The air circulates oddly through the house, opening and shutting doors seemingly at random, stirring the Chicago Tribune that sits on the coffee table until Fraser conscientiously puts it into the recycling bin. The drafts flip pages in books, flutters through the paperwork Ray brings home to work on, riffles the classic car calendar pinned to the wall.

Sometimes, the air tousles Fraser's hair, and it almost feels like fingers, playing with the curls. It feels strange, almost possessive and it sends a frisson of uneasiness through his bones.

* * *

The house settles noisily.

When dawn lightens the sky, the exterior brick walls warm and the house ticks and clicks and groans. It yawns quietly and stretches, and Fraser sits in their sunny kitchen, drinking coffee and enjoying the sounds of the morning.

As the sun goes down, the foundation shifts and the structure rattles and squeaks and knocks. Sometimes it's like there's something _alive_ in the walls, softly scratching to get out. Dief sniffs suspiciously at floorboards and walls, stares intently at the ceiling, but never tells Fraser what he sees.

On windy nights the trees in the yard brush against the roof, and it sounds like something's scuttling across the shingles. It makes Ray shiver and move closer to Fraser, who makes up cautionary tales about foolish half-wolves until Ray drifts off to sleep, warm and cozy in their bed.

* * *

The house gets cold, and Fraser is sure it's a function of the cross-currents that plague them. The fireplace is cozy and warm, but it's the furnace that's the real source of heat, and even that can't seem to eliminate the cold spots.

Sometimes, late at night, when Ray's shuffling down to the kitchen for a snack, he hits a patch of air that's absolutely frigid. He always checks the doors and windows, because it's so cold he's convinced that it's coming from directly outside. Nothing else makes sense, but the house is sealed up tight.

He can see his breath, a puff of white, and it sparkles with tiny ice crystals, like fairy dust. The cold wraps its tendrils around him and Ray shivers and turns on the lights, pulling the tie on his robe tight. It warms up after a while, but Ray can't shake the chill until he climbs back into bed and presses against Fraser's warmth.

* * *

It's slowly driving Fraser crazy, the way the furniture in the house is always a little off-kilter from where it should be. He figures Ray must bump into the couch or coffee table, moving it slightly out of alignment. What Fraser doesn't get is _why_ Ray stubbornly refuses to put the furniture back where it belongs.

Fraser holds on to his anger, letting it bottle up inside of him, but when he finds the kitchen table two inches to the left of where it had been, he explodes. They argue; Fraser accuses Ray of deliberately moving the furniture. Ray swears that he hasn't and spends the night sleeping on the couch, while Fraser tosses and turns in bed, restless.

In the morning, they apologize to each other.

* * *

In their new home, the knives have taken on a much sharper edge.

Fraser, who counts himself among the dexterous, ends up at the emergency room three times, and once more with Ray. More than ten stitches over the course of their visits to the ER.

His fingers become scarred with small cuts and slashes that are slow to heal and hurt more than they should. He strives to be careful, but it never seems to be enough.

Ray, who is always more exuberant in the kitchen, almost lops off a fingertip and swears off cooking for a month while his finger heals, grumbling the whole time about blood-thirsty utensils.

* * *

Dief, for reasons he won't expound upon, doesn't like the new house. There are parts of the house that he avoids, and days where he refuses to even cross the threshold, preferring to sleep outside in the doghouse that Fraser and Ray build for him.

"Can't say I blame him, Frase," Ray laughs. "It's a damn nice doghouse."

"Yes," Fraser says. "But we bought the house for all three of us. As a _family_."

"Kids go through phases, Frase. This is just Dief's I-don't-wanna-be-seen-with-dad-and-dad phase. He'll come around; just give him time."

"I suppose." Fraser looks down at his boots. "I just wish he'd talk to me."

Ray slaps his shoulder in commiseration. "Being a parent is hard."

* * *

"Hello, Benton," Eric Kitikmeot says, standing on their front porch, duffle bag at his feet. "Ray."

"Eric!" Fraser laughs, and steps out to pull his old friend into a hug. "It's been a long time. Come in, come in. How was your trip?"

"It was—" Eric freezes, one foot on the threshold. Slowly, carefully, he backs away from the door.

"Eric?" Fraser is confused.

Eric looks at them, grim. "How long have you had a _tuurngaq_ haunting your house?"

* * *

Suddenly, things make sense. The cold spots, the dying plants. The way the furniture shifts. Dief's disquiet.

"So, we've got a ghost."

They adjourn to a local diner, because Eric refuses to set foot inside the house. "'Ghost' is something of a misnomer," Eric says, shaking his head. "It brings along a Christian narrative that isn't attached to the term _tuurngaq_."

"What do you mean?" Ray's forehead wrinkles.

Fraser says, "A ghost is the spiritual remains of a person who has died. For whatever reason, the ghost doesn't move on to the next plane of existence. A _tuurngaq_ doesn't start out as a person, it's always been a disembodied spiritual presence."

Eric nods at Fraser. "A _tuurngaq_ is usually a harmful, destructive thing, responsible for bad hunts and worse luck. Sometimes a _tuurngaq_ would possess a person, use them to steal and kill. The _angakkuq_ , the shaman of a community, if they were powerful enough could control a _tuurngaq_ or protect the community from its misdeeds."

"So how do we get rid of it?" As always, Ray is direct.

"We banish it," Eric says.

"Let's do it. I want this thing outta our house."

"Our home," Fraser adds, and Ray nods.

* * *

Eric spends a few hours on the back porch, meditating and trying to discern more about the _tuurngaq_. "It's strange, Ben," he says. "The _tuurngaq_ is strongly feminine, which is unusual. And she's vengeful, and very focused on you." Eric looks at him solemnly. "Have you done something to anger the _tuurngaq_?" 

Fraser shakes his head. "I don't recall doing so." 

"Sounds a lot like Victoria," Ray says with a stilted laugh.

Both Fraser and Eric stare at him, before looking at each other. 

"Where _is_ Victoria these days?" Eric asks.

"I don't know. There hasn't been reported sighting of her since last year." 

Eric gets to his feet. "Please take me to a nearby motel. I need to talk to some of my elders, see if anyone has heard anything about this unusual _tuurngaq_. Maybe you should make some inquiries with the RCMP about Victoria, Ben."

"All right." Fraser gestures toward the house. "Do you really think Victoria somehow has something to do with this?"

"It's better to find out now, before we attempt to send away the _tuurngaq_. Not being fully informed can be very dangerous."

"I bet you anything Victoria's out there, plotting her revenge on you and Vecchio," Ray says with a grimace. "She sounds like the type who doesn't know how to give up."

Fraser agrees. "Ray, will you give Eric a ride to a motel while I make some phone calls?"

"Sure, Fraser."

* * *

"Well?" Ray asks, as Fraser hangs up the phone. He's pale and looks a little green, and Ray can hear the way he's swallowing repeatedly, like he's trying to keep from vomiting.

"She's dead." Fraser sounds surprised.

"Good," Ray says. "Evil bitch deserved what she got, and more." Ray has no charity in his heart for Victoria Metcalf, who'd done so much harm to Fraser and Vecchio. 

"She terrorized an isolated Yupik community for several weeks. A handful of families, a small trading post. It was the middle of winter, no way for anyone to call for help. When the nearest RCMP realized that the community had gone silent, they sent someone to investigate. . .it was a mess. The RCMP officer is going to forward the file to us."

Ray frowns, because Fraser's leaving a lot unsaid. 

"She killed herself," Fraser says, softly. "Slit her own throat and bled out in the snow."

Something about that doesn't feel right, but Ray can't put his finger on what.

* * *

"I suspect that the _tuurngaq_ tried to possess Victoria, and rather than let that happen, she killed herself."

Eric stirs honey into his tea, slow and thoughtful. "She would have to have been extremely strong-willed. And determined."

Fraser looks apologetic. "She was both."

Ray shrugs. Everything he knows about Victoria comes from reading the reports, and talking to Vecchio and Welsh. He's never met the bitch. "Let's just do the Ghostbusters thing so we can get on with our lives."

Eric nods. "Should be pretty straight forward, a simple ceremony to appease the _tuurngaq_ , convince it to move on. I've done it before."

"What can we do to help?" Fraser asks, and Eric makes a list of the things he's going to need.

* * *

They clear out the living room, moving what furniture they can, so that Eric will have an area to work in. There'd been a slight delay while Eric had some ceremonial items couriered to them in Chicago, including a small Inuit drum, a _qilaut_ , that rumbles dully when Eric strikes the frame.

His outfit is clearly handmade, a hide tunic and leggings, with intricate stitching and beading. Two hand shapes, filled in with white thread, lay against Eric's chest. Ray is curious about the symbolism, because he's seen those images before on other pieces of Inuit art over the years, but he is more concerned about getting the _tuurngaq_ out of their house than anything else. His questions can wait.

The crowning piece of Eric's ensemble is a mask, round and wooden, surrounded by feathers, with slanted eye holes and a grinning mouth filled with wickedly sharp teeth. Fraser carefully helps Eric lift it over his face, and tightens the straps.

The overall impression is something straight out of a horror movie. Ray shivers, and after he and Fraser back away, Eric starts the ritual by tapping on the frame of the _qilaut_. The drum thrums, and something in the air _tightens_ in response.

Eric dances, steps careful and measured, and he chants, voice rising and falling in time with the beat of the _qilaut_. Ray shifts his weight from foot to foot, because something about the ceremony disturbs him, like claws skittering down a chalkboard. It makes his skin crawl, and the hair on the back of his neck is standing up.

As Eric continues, the atmosphere inside the house grows heavier; Ray would almost swear that the shadows are growing darker, spreading like a low-hanging mist. He shakes his head and tries to focus, watching as Eric's deliberate movements take him clockwise around the room, and then he reverses, circling in the other direction.

It's getting cold; Ray can see his breath when he exhales, and Eric seems to be struggling against—something. His voice rises powerfully, and his feet hit the floor harder, and the drum vibrates along Ray's bones. The shells and beads on Eric's tunic rattle as he moves, and the sound is strangely hypnotic.

The air inside the house is oppressive, making it hard to breathe, and Ray's instincts are clamoring at him to _run, hide, get away_ ; fight or flight mode, and he struggles against the feeling.

All he can hear are the beads, clicking against each other, and the world falls away.

* * *

"—Ray—"

Ray jolts, confused and lost. "What the hell—"

Fraser is holding on tight to his shoulder, looking worried. "You fell into some kind of trance while Eric was performing the ceremony. . ."

He looks around, sees Eric still dressed in his regalia except for the mask, which he holds in one hand. "How long was I out?" A more important question occurs to him. "Did it work? Is the _tuurngaq_ gone?"

Eric looks exhausted, gray and faded, but he nods. "I believe so. It was more difficult than I anticipated; the _tuurngaq_ did not wish to leave."

Fraser takes the mask from Eric, and helps remove the heavy tunic. "You need to rest," he says to Eric. 

"Yes," Eric says, leaning heavily against Fraser. "The _tuurngaq_ fought hard, and long."

"But it _is_ gone?" Ray isn't sure why, but he needs the confirmation.

"Yes," Eric says.

"Greatness." Even as he speaks, Ray can feel the ghostly fingers of foreboding brush against his neck. He trembles.

* * *

Without the _tuurngaq_ inhabiting the house, things return to normal. Fraser's plants thrive and grow, the cross-currents stop, and best of all, the cold spots disappear. The house still settles noisily, but some houses are just loud. Fraser no longer finds random pieces of furniture slightly askew, and there are no more trips to the emergency room due to sharp knives inexpertly wielded.

The only thing that doesn't return to normal is Dief, who still spends most nights sleeping in his doghouse. He shies away from Ray's touch; it's subtle, but Fraser has an eye for detail. When Fraser asks him about it, Dief just pretends to sleep.

Some nights, Fraser wakes up shivering, and it feels like the cold is back. He rolls over, closer to Ray, and something about the light tricks his eyes; instead of Ray's stubbled jaw, he sees a woman's face: white skin, dark hair, blood-stained lips. He blinks, and the illusion is gone.

It's just Ray, snoring softly, sprawled loose-limbed and relaxed.

But the cold persists until he falls back into a restless slumber.

-fin-


End file.
